


Afterparty

by GarbageHell



Category: Borderlands
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol Abuse, Asphyxiation, Drug Abuse, Dysfunctional Relationship, F/M, Incest, Power Dynamics, Rutting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-17 21:18:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5885560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GarbageHell/pseuds/GarbageHell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Big bad Handsome Jack crawls home from a sleazy corporate party to find his darling Angel waiting in judgement of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Afterparty

     It’s only with red rimmed eyes and eyelids shining like the mirror does Jack realize he’s had more than enough for the night- cold water streaking down his face, wetting the collar of his tacky t-shirt and the lapels of his tuxedo jacket, he stumbles out of the bathroom and waves off the throng of party-goers he’s been rubbing elbows with for hours and hours now. How long had the party been going and going and going? He’d been having too much of a good time to care. Wearing the indulgences of the night plainly, he starts his walk of shame back to his condo.

     The party dies out after he leaves by design. Hyperion law states it’s over when he says so, and tonight, oh boy, does he _ever_ say it’s over. No one disturbs him on his way home- no one would dare, but he goes so far as to dunk his echo into a fountain he passes, giving a weak hearted woo as it plunks into the depths. He’d only have to kill anyone that bothered him now- preventative measures and all that, he tells himself. He’s always doing little public services like that- if _only_ people noticed.  

     After fumbling with the lock and remembering it opens to his voice, he stumbles into his living room and feels the weight of the night starting to leave. A sigh, a stretch, he’s _home_. He doesn’t even notice the figure draped over his couch at first, until he near trips over an outstretched leg- then the alarms start to go off in his head as he sees first the shoes, then the dress.

     “Ah, Angel?” he asks, squinting, wondering if maybe she’s a hallucination. It wouldn’t be the first time, but he wracks his brain trying to remember if any of the pills and powders and things from earlier were supposed to have quite that effect. Stumbling for the lights, he adjusts them on dimly, not wanting to aggravate the headache. He takes a deep breath before turning to see if she’s still there.

     To his misfortune, she is. Her figure is grounding, just about the last thing he expected to find in his home. If he wasn’t low key freaking out, he might crack a joke at her about killing his high. Slowly, he approaches, stomach turning between worry, anger, too many negative emotions. He shoves his hands into his pockets to hide the white knuckled fists he can’t help but react with.

     “Princess?” he asks when he’s close enough, a whisper in case she’s sleeping. 

     “Hell of a party, huh?” she prompts, kicking up a high heeled foot in his direction- he brushes it aside, steps back. This doesn’t add up to him yet, but the pieces are all there- the lazy carry of her voice, the lipstick smeared on her neck, the hairs out of place, and, most damningly, the low cut of her dress.

     “I almost went back to pull you out-” she adds, head falling back, recollecting, “But I don’t think my new friends would have let me go a _second_ time.”

     He grits his teeth as it clicks, and she yawns lazily, shaking off the light sleep she’d managed.

     “You’re not-”

     “Not supposed to go to those?” She interrupts, scoffing to make a point. He stammers angrily at the dismissal, but bites his tongue and stands silent a moment, not sure how to react here. Without thinking, he rubs the back of his hand against his nose, and becomes very acutely aware of what he must look like right now. Something foreign- shame? Shivers through him. Before he can deal with whatever this is, he has to clean up. He steps away, leaves the room and feels her piercing eyes on the back of his neck the whole way. 

     “You could ground me,” she calls with a vicious giggle from the couch, and he takes a deep breath and shudders despite himself, feeling déjà vu as he retreats to another bathroom. He can hardly look himself in the eyes now, and avoids the mirror as he tries to straighten himself out- tucking his shirt, zipping his zipper and wiping the lipstick marks from his mask, the dust from his nose, setting his stray hairs in place. A bottle of pills amongst many others in the cabinet offers relief from the throb in his head, and as he swallows a few dry he leans back against the wall. 

     What to do about Angel? If he avoids her now, she’ll wander her way to him eventually and… and what? He looks to the tiles of the floor. He shouldn’t be afraid of her, he tells himself. He’s her father- he’s in charge. He has to set her straight. His heart is still racing, but that might just be the coke. A flicker of a memory- the acrid scent of burnt linoleum flashes, and is gone. Hesitantly he leaves, and he catches a glimpse of himself on the way out of the bathroom.

     She hears him approach- footsteps on the carpet, then a lingering silent nothing as he stews on just what he’s going to say to her. The smile on her face grows as she waits- she doesn’t care what he has to say, not anymore. She doesn’t usually, but at least pretends a polite, quiet compliance with him.

     After a full three minutes of silence, she pulls herself up and fixes him in her gaze again. She spent enough time waiting for him to come home- more waiting is just testing her patience, not amusing anymore, just pathetic. She catches a second of lost nerve on his mask -terrified, even- before his eyes fix resolute again.

     “That neckline is too low,” he says, nodding at her dress. She doesn’t lose the smile, only looks down at herself and stretches a little, near showing off. His expression hardens, his arms cross.

     “Isn’t that why you bought it for me?” she replies. He bites his tongue, looks away a moment. That fact is only one of many that she was going to make him answer for tonight.

     Like so many things in her life, it had shown up on her bed one day, wrapped in tissue and ribbon without a word. She’d tried it on, modeled the cut and the style with grace as he tried to figure out if she’d liked the offering or not. Too well practiced in manipulation to tell the truth, he was left in the dark as she wrapped silky words around him and gave her thank you. Whether her gestures had been sincere or just the motions, he still didn’t know. He did know, however, it looked stunning on her- too formal for much beyond parties, he had known what impulse had led him to buy it in the first place. But he’d never admit that.

     “It… it looked different on the model.” he says, a fib to catch a handhold against her. 

     She sits up properly, regal, crossing her stocking clad legs and setting her hands on her knee. Though he’s standing and she’s sitting, he might as well be kneeling on the floor. Enough about the dress, though- she’s got better things to dig up. Maybe she’ll needle him more about it later.

     “I understand why you didn’t want me to go, now.” she starts, and he braces against the change of topic. His mind goes to the worst, praying his baby didn’t get into anything too sleazy, too dirty. Even the air in those places is thick with the misty, fashionably flavored smokes, pierced through with the lusty, predatory gazes of people too eager to show off all they have. 

     Back in the old days- the John days- he tried near ever trick to get out of going to the office parties with their dry, stale sheet cakes, awkward coworkers, and mandatory attendance. The ones these days? A roulette wheel of vice and sin so full up there’s never even space for the servers to wear panties. Handsome Jack makes it a habit to throw them regularly, taking as many lines of this-and-that as he can, right off the tits of whoever offers.

     He usually thought of them as damn fine parties- parties anyone would be leaking envy from their ears over hearing about, let alone attending. Now though, he feels the sweat under his mask thinking of his baby girl loosed in one.

     “Angel,” he warns, hand raised as he takes a step towards her. He looks away before she does though, once again.

     “Father.” She replies, damning amusement still plain on her face. He falters when she speaks again.

     “Are you afraid someone will fuck me?” she asks, head tilt innocently, and he jolts as her foul words register. Like a mouse lunging for a bated trap, he slaps her before he even thinks, and she springs on him, on her feet in a second flat. The shock of what he’s done hits him immediately, shame flushed across his face as she bares her teeth in a grin. Her cheek stings, his hand stings, and he steps back and puts a hand over his mouth.

     He stammers, “Angel, baby- I’m sorry, I’m sorry-” and she cuts him off, matching his steps as he tries to back away, almost a dance.

     “Are you?” she demands, and before he can get away, she’s got her hands on his smooth lapels, then the trailing fabric of his undone bowtie- it takes her a less than a second to wrap it around her knuckles like a garrote. She pulls him down, down to his knees. He knows he deserves this, lets his hands fall idle to his sides. He could stop her- she’s tiny compared to him. But hasn’t he done enough damage already? 

     “Doesn’t matter.” she replies, taking a slow trailing step around him, a finger gracing the side of his neck. It’s unsure what she’s decided doesn’t matter- the attack, the apology, him? He shivers, meets her eyes for a second and then stares to the floor again.

     “I just,” he starts, trying to stand as she tightens her grip on his bowtie, wrapped effectively around his neck now, “-just don’t want anyone to _hurt_ you,” he says, and hooks a finger around the strain of fabric. She doesn’t even roll her eyes; _a little late for that, dad_ , she thinks, but says nothing.

     “I… baby, this place is full of people who’d _use_ you,” he pleads. Even when he’s not high, or drunk, he’s never so lucid as to realize the irony of those words.   

     “They’d be so easy…” Angel muses, half to herself. Memories of the party rise in her mind- she decides to share one. The sting in her cheek hasn’t faded, but even its threat is worth the next revelation.

     “I wasn’t even in the room a minute, and they offered me _everything_.” she says, voice dripping with intent. Now her hands pull the bowtie again, but not to hold him down- just strain against his neck, choke his words. She knows he likes that kind of thing; she knows _everything_ he likes. His mouth goes dry.

     “I didn’t want any of it.” she shrugs, a truth he doesn’t believe, “But… I did indulge a _little_ , before too long.” He shudders, waiting for the worst, staring right ahead but seeing almost nothing. The bowtie eases off slightly, a gentle gesture against her harsh words.

     “There was a poor fool of a man, thought he had all the stars in the sky twinkling in my eyes just for him…” she starts, leaning over Jack just a little, enough to grab at the sleeve of his jacket and pull his hand up. Something about her warmth feels unnatural to him, as she presses against him all wrapped up in the damn dress. He wonders who else she was pressed up against earlier, feels a jealous stir he tries to justify as fatherly concern.

     “We were at the bar- one of them, anyhow- and after I’d told him I’d never had a drink before, he offered me a taste of his…” she says, raising his hand till he feels her warm breath on his cold fingers. 

     “I sucked a drop right off his finger.” she purrs, before wrapping her mouth around his. He jolts, but her grip is tight and the shiver down his spine isn’t just fear at this point. She lets his finger loose reluctantly, giving a warning nip before she lets it go, tongue playing against him overwhelming until it’s suddenly gone. Her lands let him go, but his hand hovers, unsure what to.

     “It tasted disgusting.”

     Eyes closed, he turns his head from her as she circles back in front of him. The finger she sucked shakes and he’s not sure what he wants, or what she wants at this point. He tries to kindle that concern from earlier, fixates on his darling baby with some man’s finger in her mouth. That seems to work. He has fire enough to speak again, at least.  

     “You’re _precious,_ Angel- you’re special, too special to let trash like that touch you.” he starts, and finally he stands, eyes open, he closes the distance between them in a single step that has her near jumping in surprise. His hands clasp her shoulders, too rough, probably. She looks up into his eyes and holds silent, moving only to brush the hair that’s fallen in her face away.

     “You understand what I mean, I know you do,” he says, anger in his face softening to concern as he raises his hand to brush his knuckles against her hair. He thinks he’s getting through to her as her own piercing gaze starts to falter, and her hands cautiously raise to clasp his. Maybe she understands his plea, now.

     “Angel baby…” he starts, “what are you…”

     Before he can finish his question, she’s dragged his gentle grip down to her neckline. The fabric is still smooth as he remembers, though last time he was only thinking of how it might feel with her in it, as he smoothed it into the gift-box. 

     “Angel,” he starts, but she ignores him as she trails the neck lower using his hands.

     “Stop this,” he demands, but instead she steps closer, pressing her body against his and turning till she’s wrapped in his arms and his chest is flush against her back. He knows, he knows she’s playing him just like she played the man at the bar. But he doesn’t know that man- all the people she toyed with earlier- were just warm ups, just practice in pushing buttons and flirting. Guidance from a guardian angel- vox ex machina- is boring, now.

     She can feel his jaw tighten against the back of her head, smiles.

     “Stop what?” she asks, and his stomach turns as he feels his hands pull her dress’s neck low enough to expose the marks on her chest. With a shiver, he realizes her hands aren’t guiding his anymore. 

     Delicately, her own are brushing aside her hair. She shifts her weight, hips cocking to one side, brushing against him intentionally as he hesitates and lingers, so unsure what to do. He tells himself it’s the drugs, the drink, anything but himself- but he’s almost enjoying this, now. 

     “Help me with this.” she orders softly, ear exposed in the cool air. A silver earring dangles from her ear, and his hands go to it as softly as they can, though his nerves leave them imprecise, clumsy. Another gift. They were her mothers, once. He feels déjà vu again, in the act of taking them off.

     She patiently waits, feeling his chest swell and sink against her, understanding the shudder. She can see it from the cameras, too- a tiny girl holding back her smile, and a man who might as well be on his knees praying to her.  

     It’s an intimate, gentle gesture, one that feels grossly wrong in its context. Jack shivers again, and she relishes the way fear is piercing him. He pulls the decoration free and hands it to her. She drops it harshly to the floor after taking a second to look at it, shrugs her shoulders and tilts her head the other way, offering the other.

     He gets this one off quicker, she notices, but says nothing. He hands it off to her gently, as if she might not throw it down like the other, and before he knows it he’s leaned down to kiss the bare skin of her neck. It’s still a surprise how warm she is- her hands are usually so cold, he’s assumed the rest of her must be too. She shivers, bristling in anticipation, clutching the earring.

     “You should see the way they look at me.” she says, and his aimless hands suddenly find her waist, clutching onto her. He kisses her neck harder, and she giggles as it tickles her, fidgeting the tiniest bit in his grip.

     Face pressed against her skin, he murmurs back, “They’re not good enough for you,” almost to himself.

     “I love you, you know that, I just… Angel, what are we doing?” he asks, but trails off, focusing on the way her own breath is quickening, the way her heartbeat feels. Tired of waiting, she slips her hand over his again and brings them back to the neck of her dress. She doesn’t have to tell him anything this time, as he gives her breasts a squeeze before pulling the fabric down to reveal her nipples.

     Exposed, she feels a shock of nervousness right alongside the excitement- for as much as she had been prepared to do this, hypotheticals only take you so far. She whimpers as he brushes over a nipple, then pinches and plays, her legs going weak. 

     Jack’s there to hold her up, though, prepared to do anything for his babygirl. She shivers and eases her dress down further.

     “Unzip me,” she says, and when she feels the tight fabric loosen, she takes a step forward and pulls out of his grasp, lets it fall to the floor. The marks on her back stretch as she takes a deep breath, offset by the anchor points of the ports running down her spine.

     “Oh my god,” Jack mutters, a hand over his mouth at the sight- beautiful and elegant even without the dress or earrings, their absence reveals she’s pantyless; high, smooth stockings and a garter in Hyperion pattern honeycomb the only things hiding under her dress. He feels another pang of jealousy in his stomach.

     “You… were you like this, all night?” he gets out, and her triumphant smile says it all. She nods, turns slowly to show off as he bites his lip. Half of him doesn’t want it to be true, wants to wake up from this deranged dream and find she’s been sleeping safe and soundly in her quarters all night. Everyone has fucked up dreams now and again, right?

     She takes a step towards him, the sound her heels make an absolute against the cold floor. 

     “Actually, I took them off at the party.” She teases, and he feels another twist of possessive, dark jealousy.

     “Y-you what?” he asks, and he meets he halfway in her languid pacing. He doesn’t have time to question her again as she tilts her head back and forces a kiss on him- it’s the kind of kiss she shouldn’t even know how to do, he thinks for only a moment before giving into her. Fingers wrapping around her waist, he holds her tightly, about the only thing that helps soothe the jealousy welling in his heart.

     She takes another step, pushing him backwards, backwards, till he bumps the couch and she pushes him down onto it. A second later, she’s on top of him. All he can do is dazedly stare up at the dim lights as he feels her mouth against his jaw, against his neck, smearing lipstick with every kiss. She’s not supposed to know any of this- not how to seduce a man, not how to make someone shiver like this. He feels smaller than he ever has underneath her, even though the press of her body is hardly anything, it seems she knows how to use it. He almost doesn’t want to know how or why.

     His breath hitches when he feels her grind against the dark pants he has on- the act will leave a stain on them, but it’s not something he does a thing to stop. His hands even go to her hips and hold her. His face flushes when she starts to whimper, almost moaning. He swallows and starts to guide her with his hands, the pressure just right here, there.

     “This is… baby, we can’t,” he says, and she laughs almost breathlessly.

     “I said earlier you could ground me.” she reminds him, patronizingly. He swallows, decides maybe she’s had enough time leading this encounter. The grip on her hips moves to her ass, and he gives her a rough squeeze before spanking her once. She yelps, but it turns to a moan as his resolve weakens and he slips a much softer touch against her pink lips peeking out. He caresses her, and he can feel her shudder. Although she’s still on top of him, her back has more buckle with every play his fingers make.

     Another spank has her digging her fingernails into his shoulder, but at every gentle interlude of playing softly with her he can feel her grip weaken. It’s a gauge of how harsh he can be, one he takes full advantage of as he shifts up to kiss at her neck, the white marks on her chest, anything he can reach.

     This is still at odds with how he knows he should feel; it should be his job to protect her innocence, right? He shudders, shame nestled deep in his heart as he feels his fingers start to get slick. He wants her. Jack tries to tell himself he _is_ protecting her. She’s not out with the garbage that was at the party, right? He’s just about the only person who does deserve her, he thinks. This is for the better.

     His justification will hold up in the heat of the moment, but the light of tomorrow morning will bend it to the ground.

     “You’re _my_ precious baby,” he says, gripping tight against her as he kisses feverishly, and she can’t help but smile for the attention. Her eyes stare down at him, and a lazy finger seeks out the grey streak in his hair, playing with the end of it.

     She doesn’t need to say anything else now, with how wound up he is now. But she does, pushing it further, ever the master of getting what she wants.

     “I know,” she whispers, ending the admission with a kiss against his ear. It’s a white lie, not even one of her worst, and he believes it without question. Stroking his ego is the last nail in his coffin. Warm butterflies flutter in his stomach, and he moans a breath out.

     His. His precious darling little Angel, all his.

     It’s that moment he dares to slip a finger into her- slowly, tentatively pressing into her. Her breath hitches and she moans and sinks back onto it, wet from the buildup and anticipation. No matter what intentions either of them may have, it does feel good to be worshiped like this. She can almost understand the way he’s crafted such a cult of personality for himself.

     “Babygirl, princess…” he mutters as he starts to rub inside her. There’s still the lingering surprise at her warmth, but the thought hardly registers as he loses himself in feeling her, and in making sure she feels everything he’s doing. He wraps his free hand’s arm around her back now, pulling her close against his chest as she shivers. The nails in his shoulders are all but gone now, instead holding on as he works. 

     Her mouth cracked, eyes half open, she’s finding it hard not to relax, to give in to sensation and circumstance.  

     They’re both acutely aware of the erection Jack’s been holding back since this started; pressed between them, still under the damp fabric of his pants. She wonders if she can push him hard enough tonight to use it- years of watching and waiting have her all too curious. But there’s a lingering shame already festering in the back of his mind at what he’s done already, and he doesn’t want to steal away his baby’s innocence any more than he has.

     Her hands slip down to undo his zipper; the tease of a finger inside her isn’t enough, she wants to go further, wants to feel what it’s like. She’s sent people to their deaths, opened a vault, overseen all of Hyperion’s warmongering ways… but she’s never done _that_ before.

     “What? Oh, no no, baby,” he mutters, trying at first to shift and wiggle away from her hands, but she ignores his words and finally gets the zipper down. For all his protests, he helps her ease them down and forgets in the moment that he wasn’t wearing underwear either. She gasps lightly as they meet each other, shocked by how hot his skin is, the soft grind of his hair and hers against each other. While she’s taking in the details he slips his finger out and grabs at her hips again, rutting with intent against her.

     It’s easy, given how slight she is, and Jack has to keep himself in check not to go too roughly on her. He doesn’t want to hurt her at all… just wants to make her understand how she’s making him feel- the possessive, horny instinct, all the love, the devotion he has for her. The hot grind between them seems to be doing a wonderful job at communicating that, though.

     For all her theoretic knowledge, she takes the backseat and lets him adjust them both till they’re lined up just right- his cock’s head against her lips, teasing at the entrance. He’s fucked hundreds of girls, but this time it feels different. This? He sighs, feels that stupid flutter of something in his gut. He can’t do this to her… At least, not _all_ the way. Does it “count” if there’s no penetration? He’s too muddled to reason, decides it doesn’t.  

     “Do it,” she encourages, cutting off his wayward thoughts, and he’s right there with her again, pulling her closer and burying his face in her soft hair as he tilts his hips up, just right. Just a little harder, and he’d be inside her. She gasps and moans into his neck, and knowing he’s making her do that is it’s own reward.

     The hot tip of his cock pressed against her, he hesitates. He can’t. He just can’t, for as much as he worships her, dare to steal this away from her. They’re both breathless a moment, before he retreats and returns to grinding against her. Her eyes sharpen for a second, but the slippery, hot friction between them still feels good, even if he’s backing down.  

     She can be as patient and even as she needs to be to win this game.

     She quiets up when he pulls back, starts the rock of them both as he holds her in place, right on the couch she was sleeping on when he first came in. Neither of them ruin the moment thinking about what this means, what it will mean for them both. Angel shudders and shivers and jolts but keeps herself mostly silent; it would be frustrating if Jack couldn’t read her body so well. He’s all but lost in her, preoccupied with how perfect her hair smells over him, the press of his darling princess’ body on him as he holds too closely.

     Her cunt slips over him, making her shiver every few seconds as his cock brushes past her clit, then down to her lips again. She tenses her jaw while she grinds, trying now and again to nudge his cock in; inexperienced, she can’t get it on her own, not without her hands or his help. And he’s surprisingly resolute so far, even red faced and breathless, reduced as he is underneath her. He tries not to recognize what she’s doing.

     He lets a hand trail to slip under the strap of her garter belt- where she even got the thing, he doesn’t want to know. The thought leads to wondering what she was like at the party- he doesn’t know how he even missed her, but she’s always so perfectly sly and subtle. Precise. He admires it, feels pride in his heart alongside the lurking jealousy at the thought of her ghosting through the party, slipping by him and breaking hearts with every intentioned step. He bets no one could take their eyes off of her, and then shivers and tries not to think of her well aware of her effect on them all. She’s _his_ -

     Again, she cuts his thoughts off in her actions- the weak hands on his shoulders inch up to his neck again, grabbing the bowtie’s fabric with focus he thought she’d lost as pleasure overcame her. He feels her pull her body up, pinning him down as she starts to test her position. She gets a good rhythm on top, forcing him to lay still as she grinds against him. He doesn’t understand the conflict plain on her face. As she hits just the right spot, it flickers for a moment; then, harder than before, she rides him and starts to pull the fabric tighter, tighter. 

     He doesn’t know there’s an argument going on inside her head- she wants to kill him, wants to do everything in her power to please him, wants strangle him out with his expensive, pretentious patterned silk, and wants to just… _let go_ and let him lead her down whichever misguided path he thinks might save them now. The darker voice is losing; it’s always quieted when he’s around, no matter how loud it gets when she’s alone.

     It’s a sick flip; plotting his death while he’s away, and yet hanging on every word and scrap he throws her while he’s actually around. It’s sicker still, the fantasies she’s held dear to her heart. Oblivious, he shivers, fixated on the way his babygirl is dominating him, and with every grind on him, he feels the building sensation that would make him groan if only he had the breath for it.

     The cloth tightens, his vision starts to go dark, but he doesn’t stop her, eyelashes fluttering as he holds on. Foolishly, he assumes she’s only playing into his preferences- this is hardly the first time he’s seen stars during sex. Almost too tight, the hand he starts to raise to pull it loose stops as she falters in her grip as she shifts from the focus of fabric wrapped in her fingers to the sensations from riding him, whole body shivering as she starts to make sense of how to move, what feels best. It’s not that she can’t do both; it’s just tentative exploration she doesn’t want to stop, not yet- not before she’s properly gotten a taste of it.  

     But before she knows what’s going on, before she can really appreciate the feel of mindless, passionate rutting, he stutters out that he’s about to come. She hardly has time to register his words before he finishes messily, streaks staining up his stomach, his shirt and stupid tuxedo. The stains sit between them, both panting. Open mouthed, eyes searching for meaning, they look at each other only a second.

     She pulls her eyes away to look at his mess, wants to call him out for cumming because of his _daughter_ \- and the wicked grin on her face tells him as much. She doesn’t mean to let it slip, such a candid expression. He may be tired, buzzed, high- whatever- he’s her father, and he’s not about to let her get away with it.  

     She assumes he’s done for, about to slink to his bedroom in shame, or something, to try and forget about all this. That’s an acceptable end to this, she decides. The white knuckle grip on his bowtie loosens after a moment, but as she tries to slump to his side he catches her, holding her just like before. It’s a half welcomed surprise. As he spanks her, she yelps and meets his eyes.

     She assumes he’s going to finish the job- and given the desperate, stupid things she’s feeling now, she hardly minds. Compliant, even, she angles her ass up, spreads her legs just a little more.

     “Did you think that was it?” he asks, voice low. His palm connects again, harsher than before. For once, she doesn’t know what to say. Did she misread this? Her legs tense.

     “Baby, I love you, but that… that was…” he trails off, spanks her again, and she starts to feel a pang of fear in her stomach. Manipulation is all he’s ever given her… was this wrong? He spanks her again, and her resolute front falters, her yelp genuine this time.

     He realizes what he’s done immediately.

     “Hey now,” he whispers, and his words are like the flicking of a switch. His hand meets her again, but gently. He caresses her, and her body relaxes as if on cue.

     “I’m sorry.” he says, and she feels that warm rush of validation that she hates. He hands aren’t on his bowtie anymore, they’re not on anything- so she finds him with them as quick as she can, and holds on. Not trying to hurt him, just trying to hold him.

     “You… overwhelmed me.” he says, his excuse as his eyes stare up to the ceiling. As he dips his finger back in, she’s almost not listening. Not able to stay so cold as earlier, or as purposeful, her soft, sweet moans are easier to give this time. He shifts, pulls them closer as he makes her shiver at the way he’s touching her.

     Is this what she’d wanted? She’s not sure, not sure at all, as her eyelids flutter a moment. She thought she’d had enough when she forced him to cum all over himself but this… this is satisfying in a way she doesn’t want to admit. Dimly, she can see him staring past this all, up to the shadows on the ceiling. She wonders if he’s going to have a change of heart and stop. At this point, she might beg if he did. She gets to keep her pride, though; he’s going to finish what she started.

     She hears him open his mouth, assumes he’s going to say something, but instead he kisses the side of her face, at her sensitive ear, her neck. He feels her reactions, and somehow the pair is intimate and quiet. Gentle. He makes her whimper as he kisses her neck, and she pulls him closer, closer still, still they’re side by side, almost falling off the couch now. That’s fine, maybe it never even mattered to begin with.

     He muses, and holds her close, his own ego pulsing as her noises get louder and louder still. Knowing what it means, he moves faster, harder, yet still delicately as he listens to her echo off the walls of his condo. She bites onto his shirt, unsure of what all else to do, and trusts him to see her to the end of it. For once, that trust is rewarded.

     She doesn’t finish gracefully, but presses her face against his chest and focusses on the rush of warmth and bliss chasing down her spine, breaking over the bridge of her nose. The goosebumps are a surprise, she thinks, as she starts to come down. Jack’s finger slows, and stops. He pulls it out with a wet noise. She shudders, rolls to shift her hips away from him.

     There’s nothing but silence for a long time, both of them recovering from the exertion. From the skirmish. He holds her and it’s almost pleasant. If she just shuts her eyes and focusses on the feeling of being held, it almost feels like belonging. She wants to curl up and just fall right back to sleep here. She can’t do it. She can’t let him pretend nothing happened.

     Angel makes a point of shoving him away, keeping her face blank as she can as Jack drowsily watches. She rises, her steps shaky from inexperience in her heels as she leans to pick up the dress. Jack blinks, watching. If it was anyone else, he might whistle crudely as she bent over. But the thought makes him uncomfortable. Reality comes knocking, spreading like pigment touched to a wet spot on a watercolor.

     Uncomfortably, he sits up, looks down at his open pants. His lips are thin as he sets about straightening them for the second time tonight. Angel slips back into her getup, crosses her arms in the doorway. He feels like he should say something to her- anything- and realizes what he’s got to do.

     Jack paces as quietly as he can to Angel, but doesn’t dare touch her this time. Boundaries, and all that.

     “I don’t want to hear that you’ve been out like that again.” he says, bold as if she didn’t just literally bring him to his knees and worse. Like he hadn’t just lost that battle. She doesn’t turn around- there’s no need to. Ignoring him will only make him hang himself quicker.

     It could be impatience, but he starts to think maybe she’s ignoring him. He breaks the distance, puts his hand on her shoulder. He can feel the heavy drag of guilt sitting like iron in his chest. He second guesses himself, now.

     “Angel… I’m sorry.” he whispers, and she half turns her head, stopping herself before he can see her face. His breath catches, and finally she does face him. Hey eyes are beautiful, still piercing, but they close as she leans on her tip-toes to kiss him.

     If he were truly sorry, he might stop her. But he accepts the kiss, grateful for the warmth of her body, the soft brush of her lips on his. Her little reminder of how _good_ earlier was.

     Angel pulls back first, blue eyes deep and cold. Where he couldn’t look at her earlier, now he can’t look away, frozen in place. He can still feel her lips on his, and his hand goes to his mouth immediately, fingertips tracing over the spot she was just kissing. 

     “Goodnight, Jack.” she offers, before slipping from his hands, from the doorway, and towards her quarters. He hangs, breath caught in his throat, in the doorway. All he can do is watch her go, and fight the confused mess she’s stirred his emotions into.

     When she turns a corner and disappears, he shrinks back into the room. He can hardly look at the couch- half of him wants to burn it, the other half wants to gild it and put it on display. A trophy to hide in shame. He steps away from it, and jumps when something crunches underfoot.

     Cautiously, his foot draws back and he leans to find one of Angel’s earing bent out of shape against the tile. He leans down, picks it up and tries not to look at it. She can see over the cameras as he slinks to the kitchen, downs several shots of something that he can hardly handle. Excess alcohol dribbles down his chin, which he wipes onto his sleeve crudely, just another stain on it at this point. He coughs, choking against the bitter, overpowering taste.

     He stands for a moment, lets it start to hit, and tilts his head to the ceiling. As he leaves, he leaves the bottles sitting out, something he’ll deal with tomorrow. The ruined earring sits alone with them.  

     He was coming down, but he welcomes the blur, the warmth the shots give him. Of course his baby wanted him- who doesn’t want Handsome Jack, right? He can forgive her… and speaking of _her_ , who wouldn’t jump at the chance? She’s really grown into her own. He can’t help but mine the act of caressing her hip into the air as he goes. It makes sense, it makes too much sense. It _has_ to make sense.

     He shudders, stumbles, is glad for the close walls. He makes a decision he won’t remember tomorrow- anyone that talked to her at that party? He’ll kill ‘em. Yeah. He nods to himself, missteps again, nearly spills to the floor.

     If he can just make it to bed, the shots will carry him right to that unconscious bliss. He blinks, wonders if Angel is going to bed now.

     He almost wants to crawl to her bedroom and tuck her in. Just like old times.

     Amazingly, he does make it to his bed. He flops down fully dressed on top of the blankets before attempting to pull them away. He gets half out of his jacket, kicks a shoe off. Mostly, he’s still tangled in it all.

     “G’night Angel,” he mutters into the blanket, absently, and then gives the blanket a peck, acting out what’s playing through his head.

     “G’night baby,” he slurs, and the sheets are soaking up his drool as he finally passes out.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
